SABREEN AHMED

Languages are so close to heart
The soft lilt in sweet tongues
To the coarseness of anger.
Or the nasal trade cries
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#Home# The wind that wafts across the titling Titasopas,
swiftly swaying over the thick grove of Sagun trees, in the large open childhood fields of titillating tangy parties with fresh olives and berries, of cycle races and lost games of kabaddi and hide and seek is home. From bokul scented tangerine dusks to studious mosquito bitten candlelight desks, the hilarious laughing women on the village road at budhni burhi's rice bear driven trance or the frightened children running away at the Nepali Oldman's piping sound following the long trail of his homecoming cows before twilight. Time slipped under the sun drawing remembrance of all fear and fun, like the haunted laburnum or the silk cotton simolu behind the dry pond of the forest with the hollow horrors of bygone years. The grass is forever green on the one side while arid on the other. It still resurrects shadowy dreams of a not so distant past. @ Sabreen
Published in 'Paradise on Earth' edited by Stephen Bodhan (USA) an Anthology of poets across 27 countries.
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#A Mundane tale of love # 1. In sweat soaked moments of mid summer closeness, the strokes of love came as less soulful than the soothing rain. Tossing in pleasant dismay while clogged to a tiring sheet of loveless aroma and mindless dreams. Evading the distance of creepy loneliness and stoic routine, often lulled to sleep by the giddy delight of old coital games. 2. He who never gave her a rose now gave her a tiny garden of greens, with flowers and bonsai trees, potted pomegranates and grape vines, and she waters them all with withered and waned delight, while he waits for the big overflowing waters of the red River to recede in a distant land of unsolicited solitude.
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#Uncouth Love#
The unkempt need of
the unabashed curves of skin rolled like satin creases in
uncouth lonely hours
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The Rain Song In the sound of late summer drizzle squashing the palm trees,
banana leaves and concrete roofs, happy is the chirping bird
nestled in a neighbours's jackfruit tree, singing the natural song of life while I hook on to the printed word sighing the strain of
early mid life stasis
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To My Child in Unlocked Times

.
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The letters I gave you
have smudged their ink,
and those you
gave me are soiled
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Across Bhupen Hazarika Setu
(at Dhola)

The long bridge on
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The Plough is beaten

They till
the barren Earth.
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Mother Tongue Blues
A human, a woman,
a netizen of India,
A native axomiya
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There are no more
Roses in the Mughal Gardens,
Nor any trains at Mughal Sarai,
Shahjahan is dead.
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